


I Feel Your Heartbeat

by Chunky_Squirrel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Graphic Violence, emotional h/c, kinkmeme prompt, tags may change with new chapters, warnings at the beginning of chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chunky_Squirrel/pseuds/Chunky_Squirrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme prompt <a href="http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=300416#cmt300416/">here</a>:</p>
<p>Illya has always had something of a heartbeat fixation, ever since an early age. As a child, his mother use to tell him to focus on the sound of his own heartbeat when he was angry because it would force him to calm down. Well, after everything that happened with his father and his mother, that tactic doesn't work very well anymore. That is until he meets Napoleon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings once again! I can't seem to stay away from prompts. 
> 
> This first chapter ended up a little darker than I originally planned. Please heed the warnings in the tags. There is implied suicide and implied/referenced child abuse. It is brief and vague, but there nonetheless. Again, please read with that in mind.
> 
> The next chapter(s) will be brighter, because I'm kind of a sucker for a happy ending. Now, without further ado, the prologue.

When he was younger, his mother told him to listen to his heartbeat. No matter how rapid it was, she told him to count his heartbeats. Eventually, the anger that threatened to overflow would subside, and he would be able to control the situation. His temper burned brightly, and it had caused more than one school yard fight. But after his mother taught him to listen, the number of incidents declined, and it was no longer an issue. Everybody was happier for it, and life went on. 

And then they came for his father. They said he betrayed their country, and it was for the benefit of all that he be punished. His mother didn’t cry, didn’t shout, didn’t do anything. She just stood silently as they took him away, clutching his father’s watch in her hand. He wanted to rage at the unfairness. He knew he would never see his father again, and he desperately wanted to stop them. The anger was there, and he knew if he gave in, he could do considerable damage. But his mother grabbed him and pressed him against her chest. Her heart was pounding, but it was steady, and he counted. Slowly, he felt his breathing match his mother’s, and by the time the sounds of the outside world filtered in, it was only him and his mother left in the house. 

She tried to tell him everything was going to be alright, but he didn’t believe her. He knew nothing was going to be alright. His father’s friends visited and shared their condolences, never talking about the shame that his family now carried. They pretended to care about his well being, told him to be strong for his mother now. They were liars and he hated how they thought he was too stupid and too naïve to know what they truly wanted when they visited. Most of his days was spent counting his heartbeat, trying his best to keep trouble away from his mother, but it was so difficult, listening to the other children mock and ostracize him for the shame his father brought on his name, and the shame his mother brought on herself. He didn’t want to go to school, and he once begged his mother to let him stay home. She told him to go and not be ashamed of who he was, and to be proud he was his father’s son. He yelled at her, telling her there was nothing but shame, and now, not only did his father shame their family, she did as well. 

His mother said nothing to defend herself, just as she had said nothing to defend his father. It made him angry. He didn’t remember what happened next, but when he became aware of his surroundings again, many things were broken, and he was being rocked gently against his mother, her heartbeat slowly filtering into his consciousness. Even after the anger subsided, she held on to him, her humming indistinct, but making a soothing vibration as he rested against her. He was so tired of everything, and sick with stress and worry, and it felt so nice to feel safe and loved. It was easy to fall asleep.

When he woke up, he was on the couch, a blanket tucked around him, and his mother was absent. However, there was an object in his hand. It was his father’s watch. He didn’t know why his mother had kept it, and he didn’t know why he had it now. There was no reason to keep something that belonged to a traitor, yet he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. No matter what they said, or how much he resented his father for doing this to their family, he was still his father, and he loved him. The watch reminded him of those better times, when his father would spend hours explaining the mechanical intricacies of a watch and telling him how proud he was when he successfully put a watch back together. He held it up to the fading light from the window and noted that it was still in perfect working order. Smiling at the thought that maybe he could go back to school without being ashamed, he attempted to put the watch on. Even at the last hole, the watch slid on wrist, barely stopping from slipping over his hand. Eventually, he was able to find a comfortable way to wear it, and he was quite proud of it. He wanted to share it with his mother because it was going to make her happy to know that he was going to be a good son and they would get through this together. 

As he searched and called out for his mother, his sense of foreboding and despair hollowed his stomach. He tried to convince himself he was being illogical and too emotional, and he almost succeeded. But the closer he got to her bedroom, the worse the feeling became, and he felt the first stirring of panic creeping at the edges of his mind. He ran, shouting for his mother, straight into the bedroom. 

It was very quiet. His mother was sleeping in her bed, and he was suddenly worried his unfounded panic would wake her up. She was right there, but that nagging feeling that nothing was quite how it should be, convinced him it was necessary to check. He carefully crept to the edge of the bed, breathing as quietly as possible, so as not to wake her. 

She looked very peaceful, and he was relieved to see that. Since his father was taken, she always had a pinched expression on her face, as if she were in pain. He hated that look and raged that there was nothing he could do. But now, her face was relaxed, the lack of worry lines smoothing her skin. Once he was close enough to see all this, he understood something was wrong. The color of her skin was an odd shade of grey, and he couldn’t hear any breathing. He called out to her and shook her shoulder. She gave no response. Swallowing the bile that was burning his throat, he leaned forward, and placed his ear against her chest. There was no heartbeat to count.

He stared at her body, oddly detached from what he knew he should be feeling. He didn’t cry, didn’t shout, didn’t do anything. He just stood there and watched. It took time, but eventually, he began to feel again, and when he did, he felt that familiar anger, only this time, he didn’t want to stop it. And he didn’t.

His home was destroyed. He systematically crashed through every room, breaking, throwing, and tearing anything he could get his hands on. When his energy ran out and he collapsed, his anger still burned brightly in his mind. He curled on his side in the middle of the living room, staring blankly at the grandfather clock now lying broken against the wall. Shards of the shattered face glittered in the last traces of sunlight filtering through the window. They were almost within his reach, and it was so tempting because he didn’t want to feel this way. He didn’t want to feel so angry, and he didn’t want to feel so detached from it with no way of controlling it. 

As he was gathering his energy to grab one of the shards, a single sound slowly filtered through, giving him pause. He focused on it and remembered his father’s watch. It was still in one piece and steadily ticking. He shut his eyes, and began to count. When he opened his eyes again, the sun had disappeared and he knew what he had to do.

He picked himself off the floor, and looking around, he found the phone on the floor among the splinters of the small commode. Fortunately, it remained plugged in, and he was able to call the police. It didn’t take long for them to arrive, and it took an even shorter time for them to finish. They didn’t ask him any questions after he explained that he caused the damage. They made him sit on one of the few functional chairs remaining, and they whispered while periodically staring at him. The looks they gave him were ones he was familiar with; he had seen them plenty of times from his teachers and his peers. They were afraid of him. 

It wasn’t until the police were leaving that a young woman with a too friendly smile came over to him. She said she was going to take him to his new home, and asked him if he would like that. He responded as any good Soviet child should, telling her he was happy the state would provide for him until he was able to provide for the state. It was the answer she wanted to hear because she patted his head with a bit too much force and ushered him to her car.

They eventually arrived at an austere building with a garden and many trees in front, giving it a façade of forced cheerfulness. He immediately hated it, but he said nothing. It was not his place. 

When they pulled up to the front, several people were waiting for them. The woman introduced them as the director and caretakers of the facility. He politely greeted them by thanking them for their contribution. They remarked that he was such a polite child and nothing like the monster that was described to them. They assured him that he would no longer suffer from his anger now that he was free from the treasonous influence of his parents. He thanked them again.

The woman left him at his new home, and he still didn’t know her name. He didn’t care. He knew he wasn’t supposed to.

They took him inside, and began explaining the rules. He would be under stricter regulation until he could be deemed non-threatening. He was never going to be non-threatening. Even though they hid it well, he could feel how afraid they actually were. He was pleased with this knowledge. 

He calmly studied the bland hallways lined with posters extolling the virtues of communism and the benefits of working for the greater good. They walked by uniform doors, until they stopped in front of one at the far end of the building. He was encouraged to open the door for himself, and when he did, he was greeted by a blandly decorated room filled with plain wood furniture and the same posters that were in the hallway. It took little time to visually explore the room, but he made a show of it, once again thanking them for providing him with everything he needed. It was, again, the correct answer. They told him to get his rest since the day started early, and that, if he continued to show his dedication to the state, he was going to overcome his unfortunate breeding and become a proper Soviet citizen in good standing. He assured them nothing would make him happier. 

And when morning came, he was already awake when they called for him because he didn’t sleep that night. He joined the other children in the hallway and tried to follow them, but one of the boys shoved him to the side, then another, and the other children either laughed or ignored him completely. His hands began to shake, and while he didn’t know why, he knew he was going to do something bad again. He closed his eyes and attempted to count his heartbeat, but it was too soft to hear properly. He remembered his father’s watch and switched his attention to the second hand steadily ticking around. Even though his mother was dead, he had been resolved to be a better son, and less angry one, and he was not going to go back on his word. 

He was pleased when he felt himself calm down. When the noises began filtering in, he realized one of the adults was shouting at him. She was yelling at him to get up and made to grab him, but she faltered, jerking her hand back at the last minute. He tilted his head as he studied her expression. It was filled with disgust, judgment, and fear. She hadn’t been present when he had arrived, but she obviously heard about him and what he could do. That was fine. He didn’t think she was going to be caring, so she might as well be afraid of him. 

They were all afraid of him. Not once in the first eight months of his arrival did he ever have a single episode. Sometimes he could still count his heartbeat, but he found it increasingly easier to simply count the ticking of his father’s watch. But that didn’t matter. He was a traitor’s son, surely just as traitorous as his father and a dangerous one. They whispered about what he did to his home, and they kept him under constant watch, even though he did nothing except be a model child. The other children, even those that were also children of traitors, stayed away from him. Somehow, they could tell something was wrong with him. It was lonely, but it was better than the abusive attention many of the other children suffered from. 

But one day, a new child arrived. He was older than many of the others, and he quickly established himself as the resident ringleader and bully. It didn’t take much time for the boy to hear about him, and he immediately set out to establish his dominance. Unlike the others, he was too stupid and too reckless to see the danger. He tried to ignore the cruel teasing, the name calling, and the hitting, but it became too much. The boy threatened to break his father’s watch, and even grabbed his wrist to take it from him.

He came to in the infirmary. There was a dull ache at the base of his skull. His right hand tentatively touched his left wrist, and felt a deep ache release from his chest when he still felt his father’s watch. 

When he looked around, there was nobody with him. The room was empty, until it wasn’t. A man he didn’t recognize walked into the room. At first, he didn’t say anything. He simply pulled a chair up to the bed, and sat down with purpose. Once he was settled, he spoke. He told him that he had been the one to bring the boy from earlier to the orphanage, and had been dropping another child off when he had seen the unbridled rage and fury snap the boy’s wrist and leave his face near unrecognizable. The teachers had been too afraid to approach, so he had to strike him at the back of his head. He had thought about shooting him, but he had seen potential and still saw it. He asked if he wanted to go away from here, to prove he was not a traitor’s son, bring honor back to his family name, and serve his country in a way he could never achieve living a regular citizen’s life.

It sounded too good to be true, but it had to be better than what his life was now, and what it would ever be. He was certain he would succeed and prove everyone wrong. He agreed without hesitation. The man didn’t smile, but nodded and introduced himself as Oleg. No other name was given and he knew this man was one of those secret men who did not exist except for when he needed to. 

Before long, he found himself in another building that looked like the first, except, instead of classes and playing outside, there was training. The days were long, tiring, and more often than not, he was certain he would not wake in the morning. At first, he was too tired to ever lose his control, but as he built his endurance, the familiar rage came back. More than one of the other trainees wound up in the infirmary with varying degrees of damage. His instructors both encouraged and punished this behavior. It was confusing, but he was adaptable and was soon able to to divert his rage into a focus that left him detached, and capable of achieving a level of efficiency and endurance unmatched by any of the others. It took a little over three years to be the best agent, and he was proud of what he achieved. And the longer he continued, the less he felt like something was wrong, the less he needed to count in order to keep in control, and the less he could hear his own heart, until he was certain his instructors were right; that his heart was defective and didn’t serve him, or his country, any purpose.

However, he kept his father’s watch. Over time, even though its efficacy waned, it always reminded him of why he was doing what he did. And for the time being, that was enough.


	2. The Cupboard

There were days he questioned his life choices. It usually happened when he was with his partners, so it happened frequently. They were the top U.N.C.L.E. agents, and yet, they also managed to be, not only the most destructive agents, but also the most frequently thrown into ridiculous situations because their missions never went according to plan. He was certain Miss Dancer and Mister Slate did not suffer as many indignities as he has had to suffer. And yet, Mister Waverly seemed satisfied enough with their work that he kept giving them missions with zero expectations for a routine conclusion. 

Illya would have been fine with his current situation, had it not occurred in the manner that it did, and he wasn’t currently crammed into, what he was certain was nothing more than a cupboard some fool decided to put under a staircase, with Solo. If it had been Gaby, he guessed he would probably have been fine, if not cramped, but with Solo present, there was literally no wriggle room. And to make it even more inconvenient, their positions in the small space were not conducive to his height, joints, and general comfort.

When they had thrown themselves in the cupboard under the stairs, they had only been interested in hiding from the men pursuing them. Now, he wished they had been more strategic about it. He was currently contorting his entire body over one foot since his other was somewhere in the upward vicinity. Solo was across from his as the space allowed, which meant he was wedged in a corner, knee jabbing into Illya’s side. His neck was bent at an odd angle to accommodate his head, while Illya was also forced to keep his head at an awkward angle. All of this resulted in his face more or less being shoved into Solo’s chest. 

The space felt smaller as time wore on, and Illya felt his stress level ratchet higher the longer the soldiers remained right in front of the door, chatting about a girl one of them was thinking of courting. He tried to keep his breathing steady, but it became more important to keep breathing quietly, so it began to feel like he couldn’t catch his breath. It made him irritable, and he was considering breaking out and eliminating the soldiers in one fell swoop, but that would attract more attention. Right now, they needed as little attention as possible if they wanted to make it out of the compound. He clenched his hands, though it was difficult since one of his hands was pinned behind Solo, and his other was helping him ease a little stress on his spine. 

Everything was still pressing too hard on his mind and he couldn’t focus. Shutting his eyes, he tried to center himself, focus on the ticking of his watch, except it was being muffled by Solo’s clothing, and he couldn’t hear it. He was close to breaking; he could feel it right under his skin, and he wanted nothing more than to let go. But he couldn’t do that because he had a partner to think of, and he refused to do anything that could threaten or harm him.

Suddenly, he felt a light tapping against the back of his head. It was irritating in its arhythmic pattern, but then he realized it was a pattern. 

B-R-E-A-T-H-E. 

Solo was tapping Morse code onto his head. At any other time, he would have found a way to smack Solo for doing that, however, it was too tight to do so, so he took his advice and finally realized he had been holding his breath for some time now. It was a brief reprieve, and it wouldn’t last long, but it was long enough to center his thoughts. It was imperative he figure out a way to calm down, and his watch was the best chance he had. So he tried to imagine the steady rhythm of the second hand, and began counting. Before long, he could feel his breathing begin to level out, and as long as he kept counting, he was calm.

It wasn’t until he felt less like he was going to commit mass murder, that he realized he wasn’t counting the imaginary ticking of his watch. When he was calm enough to filter the rest of the world in, his breathing was in synch with Solo’s, and he was surprised to hear his heartbeat. 

Solo’s heart was beating faster with the adrenaline still coursing through his system, but it was solid and steady. Illya didn’t have to strain his senses to be able to hear, or feel it. He needed it now, but with that realization, then came the shame. It was a liability, and a crutch. Besides the fact, Illya refused to trust anybody with the information that the only way to truly calm and center him, was counting heartbeats. But there had never been an opportunity since his mother passed to come close enough to another person to be able to focus on their heartbeat. And if his life ever went the way he wanted it to, then he would have never learned how steadying Solo’s heart was. 

R-E-A-D-Y

That damnable tapping on his head repeated a few times until he was able to confirm with himself that he was in control. A few nods indicated he was ready, and he felt Napoleon shift his weight as much as he was able. Illya strained to hear any voices outside the door, and was cautiously optimistic when he heard nothing. Groping for the door handle, he readied himself to attack, though he had a feeling it was going to be fairly awkward to do so. But for a pleasant change of pace, when they tumbled gracelessly out of the cupboard, nobody was present. They both took a moment to stretch and work out the cramps in their limbs, and work through the painful pins and needles sensation of returning circulation. 

"I don't know about you, Peril, but I for one would love to leave this place,” Solo said as he cracked his neck. “I’m going to need a chiropractor after this.”

He was going to need a new spine after this, and maybe even a new partner. Illya waited for Solo to say something about his show of weakness in the cupboard, but his partner remained blithely unconcerned, except for when he noticed a crease in his suit he couldn’t straighten out. 

“Do they have any idea what it takes to keep a suit like this looking good?” He asked, though Illya assumed it was a rhetorical question, since he did actually know how to keep a suit in good condition, and he knew Solo liked to complain about his suits getting ruined. 

“You could always not wear a nice suit on missions,” Illya helpfully supplied. 

Solo stared at him, scandalized. 

“A spy must always look his best,” he explained. “It makes an impression. Not all of us can use our intimidating glares to make a statement. This is a signature.”

His partner was ridiculous and undisciplined, and yet, he still said nothing about Illya’s near episode. He remained silent on the matter even as they finally managed to make it to the extraction point where Gaby was waiting with a nondescript little car that drove like a rocket. And later, as they were sitting in their office at headquarters, Solo had yet to do anything other than complain about the paperwork and whine at Illya to help him finish his. He rolled his eyes and accepted several sheets from Solo, figuring it would finally silence him, and might just make Illya feel like he was returning a favor. Hopefully, this would never come up again, and if he was being overly optimistic, he hoped that Solo hadn’t noticed anything significant at all.


	3. The Pistol

Since returning from that mission, Solo never once mentioned what happened. Illya tried to forget about it, but he couldn’t forget how easy it was to fall into the rhythm of Solo’s heartbeat. For the first time since his mother, he could remember what it was like to release his anger instead of keeping it locked away, or going on a rampage. It was bothering him. He shouldn’t feel this way, nor should he feel so comfortable relying on another person. And he had thought about it, but quickly discarded the idea. Just the fact the idea had even crossed his mind set him on edge. Dependence on another person was a liability. 

Fortunately, the next several missions went as smoothly as their missions ever could. Illya almost began to relax, and mark that incident as a one time event. However, true to his life, nothing could ever remain so simple. 

The mission should have been straightforward. All they had needed was the formula for a new weapon being developed by a pharmaceutical company. Solo had been posing as one of the company’s board members with Gaby as his assistant, while Illya had infiltrated the company as an intern in the research and development sector. Against all odds, everything had actually gone according to plan, up to the escape plan. On their way out, which should have been a quiet affair, had turned into a gun fight and a mad dash towards the back of the building where Gaby had hidden the car. However, just as they were exiting, Illya heard a small gasp. He looked behind him and froze. 

One of the security guards, or rather, one of the hired mercenaries passing themselves for regular security guards, had snuck up behind them, and captured Gaby. Illya had been prepared to forcefully remove him from her presence, but then there had been a gun, and he had been unable to move. 

Now, he was standing as still as he could, his mind racing through different scenarios, all of which ended horribly. The guard tightened his arm around her throat, and pressed the gun a little bit harder into her temple. Illya felt what little control he had over the situation and himself, slip steadily away, as he tapped a frantic beat against his thigh. His vision narrowed, and he felt a pressure building in his head as he struggled to retain some semblance of control. He couldn’t let himself lose his composure. Gaby’s life depended on it. 

Just when he thought he was going to pass out, or more likely, do something he would never be able to forgive himself for, he felt Solo grab his hand. Illya’s first reaction was to jerk away and snap Solo’s wrist, and he was probably about to do so, when he felt a steady beat beneath his fingertips. It was most likely painful for Solo, but Illya immediately latched on to his wrist, feeling the steady pulse and began counting. As he counted, he began to slow his breathing, matching Solo’s breathing, which he could feel with him pressed into his side. 

With a newfound sense of calm, Illya realized the guard was speaking, and had been for a while now. He was able to reassess the situation, and thankfully, the guard was prone to talking, because while he had been doing so, Gaby was able to slip the pistol strapped to her thigh into her hand. Illya loosened his grip on Solo’s wrist, and studied Gaby’s face. She was most obviously scared, but there was a stubborn set to her jaw, and a steadiness to her hand that said she was didn’t care about being scared. She was strong, and Illya reminded himself that she was a spy as much as he and Solo. He wanted to protect her, but he also understood he needed to trust her. 

It went against his initial instincts, but he did trust her and he trusted Solo. And that was why they made such an effective team. 

Gaby fired her pistol into the guard’s hand holding the gun while throwing her weight forward. He let go of her with a pained shout, the gun firing over the top her head, and lost his balance with her sudden shift in position. It was more than enough time for Solo and Illya to draw their weapons and place two, very clean holes in the man’s skull. Gaby rubbed her ear, talking just a bit too loudly about how horrible gunshots sounded up close. She allowed Illya to escort her to the car. He could feel her trembling, yet she was steady on her feet and walked with confidence and pride. But, she refused to let either he or Solo drive. Solo rolled his eyes and settled into the front passenger seat. That left Illya the cramped backseat. He folded himself into the car, being sure to hit Solo a few times as he found a position that was comfortable. Gaby loudly told them to behave. 

For as horrible as it could have been, and how it seemed at first, the situation was resolved quite neatly, as Mister Waverly would put it. As they drove back to their home base, Illya could feel the beginnings of the exhaustion that often accompanied his fits, however, he did as he had always been trained to do, and ignored it in favor of replaying the entire mission, and noting all the points he should have been better. And as was often the case, he fixated on his temper and loss of control. If Solo hadn’t of intervened when he did, Illya was certain they would be in a much different situation. 

But just as before, Solo didn’t say anything about it. He simply poked at Gaby with a combination of flippancy and warmth, getting a sense of how she was feeling with what just happened. Illya would die before he would ever admit it, but he couldn’t deny that small bit of jealousy he felt when he watched these little interactions. 

Solo had his ways, and Illya had his, but sometimes, Illya did wonder what it would be like to be as charmingly quick with words like Solo. Gaby was pleasantly sarcastic back, and yet, Illya could hear the warmth and the way she began to slowly relax. While it made him glad to know she was dealing with everything fine, Illya selfishly wanted to be the one who was able to calm her like that, to reassure her, and offer her the support she didn’t need, but deserved. He knew though, that he would never be able to provide that for her. He could barely stay calm himself, and that was only because Solo was there to ground him. He had thought his moment of weakness during that past mission a one time occurrence, and yet, here he was again, trapped with the realization he could stay in control when he could feel Solo’s heart beating.

There was no chance Solo would ignore it this time. Illya was acutely aware of this shortcoming, and he didn’t understand why Solo hasn’t done anything about it, because surely by now, there was no possible way for him to not know what Illya had been doing, and to not see that it was a liability.


	4. The Picture

Illya was determined to regain the control over his anger. With all his training, he generally knew what his triggers were, and he could avoid them, or when he was unable to do that, he knew how to divert his focus elsewhere. Ever since meeting Solo and Gaby, however, he was no longer certain what might make him slip. He knew he was becoming far too attached, and if he knew what was best, he would find a way to distance himself. Any other time, this would have been a simple matter, except now, he had the distinct difficulty of not wanting to. For better or for worse, Illya didn’t want to let them go. 

Gaby was a brightness in his life he had never known he was missing. She challenged him in every single way, and it brought a new vibrancy to his world. It was addictive, and he found himself wanting to be with her as much as their lives would allow. He still worried about her in the field, but he trusted her and with all she was learning from the top agents in the world, he knew she was well on her way to becoming a better spy than Solo or himself. He didn’t doubt Gaby would one day be in Mister Waverly’s seat. 

Then there was Solo. The thief, turned CIA agent, turned international spy. He was grating in all ways possible, and to this day, he still didn’t understand how or why their partnership worked. Solo was representative of everything Illya had always been taught as the evils of the western capitalist countries. And yet, he found himself enjoying Solo’s company, even if he was still annoying. Somehow, he had managed to weasel his way into Illya’s life, and everything would certainly be much duller without him. Illya had always thought dull was good since that meant everything was going according to plan. But then there was Solo with all his wit and lack of impulse control that made their missions, and even their day to day lives, much more lively. Not that Illya would admit to enjoying any of this. He knew he shouldn’t, and the good Soviet soldier in him felt guilty. It was made worse by his increasingly horrifying reliance on Solo for control.

Out of curiosity and a doomed hope, Illya had attempted to center himself with Gaby. It would make much more sense if she had that calming influence on him, just like his mother did. However, it had become obvious it wasn’t working. Logistically, it was difficult enough since she was much shorter than he was and it would be awkward to bend down so far. But even those few times he was lounging with her on the couch or bed, and it was much easier to listen to her heartbeat, it didn’t have the same effect. It was about as distracting as his father’s watch. It distracted, but it didn’t banish the anger and settle that sense of peace and clarity around him. He had hugged her, and when she had asked what was wrong, he had told her everything was fine. 

He should have been fine. He should have been fine without Solo. He managed to get this far in life without the man, so surely, he should be able to now. But again and again, Solo had been right beside him, keeping him calm and focused. And never once did Solo ever mention it. There was no way he didn’t know what he was doing when he kept close to Illya as much as he could during missions. How Solo knew when Illya was going to need it, he didn’t know. It just happened that during points that were particularly stressful or when his anxiety was running amok, Solo would find a way to press close enough for Illya to focus on his heartbeat in some capacity. 

There were times of course, when missions didn’t require both of their presence, and those were usually simple enough. Few times did Illya ever feel too out of his depth. He certainly had his moments of extreme irritation, but that wasn’t anything new, and he had long learned how to channel it into something non-lethal, and even useful. He wouldn’t have been the best in the KGB if his fits were a liability to his missions. 

But then of course, there were times when missions should have been simple enough, and yet, somehow managed to become a chaotic mess with too many causalities. That was how this missions was turning out to be. 

It was supposed to be a simple delivery mission. Party A had sensitive information that needed to get to Party B. Illya was charged with delivering said sensitive information. At first, everything was going according to plan, but it wasn’t meant to last. Per usual of these sort of missions, there were third parties also interested in this information to use as leverage. The thugs chasing after him were just that; thugs. No real brain between them, and easy enough to dispatch. However, once he crossed over into Austria, namely Vienna, the third parties after him were in a different class. He couldn’t be certain, however, he thought that a few of them were actually KGB. They were doing exactly what he would have done if he was the one intercepting the information. That was frustrating, because it forced him to apply a certain amount of creativity that fell into Solo’s area of expertise. 

Despite the tiring amount of effort put into avoiding most of the assassins and probably government agents, even Illya couldn’t avoid being captured in an apartment building with too many innocents around that would undoubtedly end up as collateral damage. And that was one of the many aspects of U.N.C.L.E. Illya fully supported, so he quickly hid the documents inside an old metal bed post right before he surrendered. Something solid collided with the base of his skull, and then, he felt nothing.

When he woke up, Illya was unsurprised to find his wrists bound and stuck over his head on an exposed pipe in the celing. It was a common enough situation to wake up to, and depending on who had captured him, what came next would vary. He wasn’t left in suspense for long though, because shortly after he tested the rope around his wrists, several men entered the room. Illya felt a growing sense of dread when they began speaking in Russian. 

They started out pleasant enough, introducing themselves, and admiring the work Illya was known for in the KGB. He remained silent, knowing exactly what they were up to, and mentally prepared himself for pain. And no sooner was he able to settle his mind into that blank space between consciousness and unconsciousness, that they began taking turns beating him. They didn’t ask any questions yet, and were just using their fists. After he absently noted his upper body was protesting the weight he had difficulty bearing now, they started with the questions. 

It started out with the standard questions about the documents location, its contents, and who it was being delivered to. Illya remained silent, distantly aware of what was being asked, but couldn’t be half-damned to care enough to answer. They weren’t particularly creative in their torture, and it was almost too easy to detach himself from the situation. It was only a matter of time before he would be able to free himself and get back to work. He wasn’t certain why these agents were being so restrained. He had time to come up with several theories, one of which was more likely than the others. They couldn’t actually do too much to him because, at the moment, he was officially an agent of U.N.C.L.E. The international incident it could cause wasn’t worth the risk. So, he came to the conclusion this was, at best, an annoying delay in the completion of his mission. 

And it was an annoying delay. He was going to be sore, which was going to make finishing his mission, a literal pain. Looking up at his tied hands, he was able to see his watch and tell how much time he was losing by staying here. While he was looking up, he noticed his captors had been sloppy stringing him up. It would take a little maneuvering, but he would be able to slide his tied wrists off the edge of the pipe and then show these agents exactly how he got his reputation. 

However, before he could shift his weight to gain enough leverage, the agents flashed a photograph in front of his face. He was going to ignore it, but a splash of color caught his eye. He recognized the bright green of Gaby’s dress, one of her newest acquisitions, and when he studied the photo further, he noticed it was a surveillance photo. Then, several more were shown, and judging by the angles and the distance, it became obvious she was unaware in all of them. He also realized they were recent, within the last week based off the outfits and the locations. But then, the pictures kept coming, and were of Solo, and Mister Waverly, and many of the other U.N.C.L.E. agents during their off hours. It was intolerable.

Illya was going to crush them. He didn’t hear their words; he didn’t need to. He was KGB. He had been on the other side of the conversation on more than one occasion. That was what they were doing. It would be easier to hide something happening to his partners, to his organization, rather than himself. He felt all the pieces slot into place, and as they did, he planned what he was going to do to them. 

It was going to be easy to break them, grind their bones into the ground, watch them bleed. They were going to be shown no mercy. They were going to learn why he was the best the KGB had to offer. They were going to be made an example of so his agency never made the mistake of coming after him or his own again. They said he was inhuman, a monster even, and he did not care that they were right. He was going to show them just how monstrous he could be.

But as he was imagining the things he was going to do to them, he knew he needed to calm down. He tried to take a deep breath and begin to count. It was almost as if he could feel the steady rhythm of counting slowing his breathing, and he began to feel the overwhelming rage begin to abate. And even though the thought of losing Gaby threatened to draw it out again, he began to lose the panic driving his anger. It was all suddenly very exhausting. 

“You with me, Peril?” 

Illya snapped into awareness. He felt something warm pressed against his front, and when he tried to jerk away, he was kept from moving. 

“Easy. Easy, Peril. Just take it slow a minute.”

The voice gradually began to bleed into his consciousness, and he understood he hadn’t been imagining anything. He was kneeling on the floor, Solo gripping his shoulders and keeping his face pressed into his chest. The room was very quiet, and while Solo wasn’t letting him look around, Illya could make out a crumpled body out of the corner of his eye. 

"Feeling better?” 

Against his better judgement, Illya had to admit to himself he was indeed feeling better. He couldn’t stop his eyes from closing as the anxiety drained from his body. Several deep breaths later found himself feeling centered and leaning more heavily against Solo, who still gave no indication of moving. 

“Sorry, Cowboy,” he mumbled. 

"No need, Peril,” Solo said. “We all have our off days, especially when an agency has individuals acting on their own, outside of mission parameters.”

“At least they were not authorized by KGB,” Illya sighed. He nodded his head, and felt Solo loosen his grip so he could sit up better. “What are you even doing here?”

“Well, I happened to be in the next city over, having just completed my own mission, and Waverly thought it more efficient for me to be the final contact,” he explained breezily. “But the Vienna office caught wind of your ex-colleagues making a mess of things, so instead, I felt it prudent to follow up on this information.”

“Always meddling,” Illya said.

“I’ll take that as a ‘thank you,’” he said. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I for one, would love to get out of here.”

Illya couldn’t argue with that. He tried to stand up, and was mostly successful, except at the last moment, his knee tweaked in the wrong direction. His center of gravity shifted, and he found himself preparing to meet the floor, only Solo managed to catch him with a grunt. 

“Wow, you are as heavy as I expected,” Solo said. 

When he got his footing, Illya carefully elbowed Solo in the solar plexus, so as not to lose balance again. 

“Honestly, Peril, is it really smart to incapacitate me when I’m helping you walk?” he asked. 

“I can walk fine, Cowboy,” Illya growled, hating that he wasn’t completely certain he could. 

He couldn’t remember much, but he thought that they may have hit him in the head. The room was not quite in focus, and a growing feeling of dread and nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Again, he felt Solo shift against him with a grunt.

“Dammit, you stubborn Russian ass,” Solo huffed. “This is why you let me help you.”

It wouldn’t be the worst, he supposed, to let Solo support some of his weight, though he wasn’t about to fully surrender. They would make much better time if he wasn’t slowing them down, so really, it was expedient for his mission to allow his partner to help. He tentatively let himself lean against Solo, who easily accommodated the weight, and he immediately felt some of the strain on his body ease, which made it easier to focus on not being sick all over the floor. 

As they progressed through what looked like a large storage room, Illya finally realized he didn’t know what the status of the agents were. While it was in self-defense, he also knew the KGB would frown upon one of their own killing several fellow agents. It was illogical, and it would be useless to try, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying to turn around and go back the way they came. 

“They’re fine,” Solo said. “Well, maybe that’s being a bit generous since I don’t think they’ll be active agents again, but the important thing to focus on here is that they are still alive. It’s more than what they deserve.”

“But they would have been dead if you did not stop me,” Illya argued. “I must always be stopped. Is, uh…is…what is word…bah, is not good.”

“Eloquent as always, but I have to disagree with you, Peril,” he said matter of factly. “You wouldn’t have killed them. You would have stopped before then, and even if you did, it would be because they were very bad men who needed to be stopped. Never once have you harmed me, Gaby, Waverly, or any other innocent. While furniture may not be so lucky, that can be replaced. You’re in far more control than you seem to think you are.”

Illya frowned at Solo’s words, not quite believing him, and yet, he couldn’t think of a good retort. That may be because his head was becoming heavier, and his thoughts were soft and fleeting, but somewhere in the darkest part of him, Illya could admit he wanted to believe Solo. More frighteningly, Illya did believe him. It was an idea and a dream he never dared to even consider, and yet, now that he has, he was hit with the revelation that he just may be more than what he was told to be. 

Incidentally, he was also hit with an extreme wave of nausea and vertigo, which seemed to tilt the world in a direction that made little sense, and he had a very strong desire to lie down. If he did, everything would probably be better, and he could share his revelation with Solo. He thought he heard Cowboy talking to him, but it could also be his imagination because sound was starting to fade in and out, like bad radio reception. He definitely wanted to lie down, only something was keeping him upright, and it was annoying. He just had an existential revelation, and he couldn’t even revel in it properly. Whatever was holding him up could join him in his misery. With what little strength he had left, Illya let his body go completely lax, and felt triumphant when he felt gravity do its work and he was finally on the floor. It was softer than he expected, but still stable, which was more than enough for him to let go and slip into a blank space, blissfully free from annoyances.

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like, come visit me on tumblr [here](http://manicferret.tumblr.com/).


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